


Un Bacio

by melforbes



Category: The X-Files
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-29
Updated: 2016-12-29
Packaged: 2018-09-13 02:10:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9101701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/melforbes/pseuds/melforbes
Summary: Tumblr prompt: pre-revival, dating other people. This can also be viewed on my blog, everydaymsr.tumblr.com.





	

With a backdrop of red brick and early-evening dusk, she's exquisite.

He can't tell if it's the separation that's getting to him or if the blue wrap dress she's wearing does, in fact, hug her curves in luxurious ways; however, he knows for certain that the phone in her hands is new, one of those Apple ones he'll never be able to figure out. Though her wrists are empty save for a watch, she's still wearing that cross around her neck, a pair of gold studs he gave her on her ears. Maybe she's trying to send a message, he thinks but then dismisses; at this point, he doubts that any of the jewelry she owns _isn't_ in some way associated with him.

After fifty days without contact - not that he counted - she called him in the evening, asked if he'd like to go to dinner in Alexandria sometime. Of course, he said yes immediately, no need to furrow out a place in his nonexistent schedule, so she asked how that Wednesday would work. In the middle of the week after she got out of work, the date and time were clearly a ploy, an implied _this is not intended to be romantic;_ though he figures she wants to discuss something financial or equally objective over mediocre-to-good Italian food, he momentarily forgets that, instead traces the line of her hipbone with his gaze. She looks thinner, but he's not sure as to what that could mean, as to whether or not that's a good thing.

When she looks up, he downplays his reaction, pretends that he hadn't spent two hours deciding on which blazer-jacket to wear. For a second, she eyes his tie, the grey one she bought him long ago; though he doesn't express it externally, he's smug that he picked a reactionary one.

"Hey," she says, and her voice alone makes him feel as though he's about to stumble. "I was just about to text you."

He's late; that's why. Unfortunately, she's shivering as he reaches her, the winter air calling for a coat she doesn't have on right now.

"I already have a table," she says, pointing inside. "I thought you might've gotten lost."

No, he hadn't, but he was never good at showing up on time, takes a deep breath as he understands that she's forgotten that.

"Shall we?" he asks, motioning toward the restaurant's door. "You look cold."

"I _am_  cold," she says as he opens the door for her, as she ducks into the warm, oreganoed air of the restaurant.

The place is just loud enough to bother his hearing and just dark enough to fool a first date; the bar is a luscious mahogany, and at each table, vibrant pasta dishes filled with seafood sit in front of young, hip couples. Though he and Scully are out of place here, she doesn't seem to mind, so he follows her to their table, one tucked in among other two-seaters. Thankfully, it's quieter over here, so as he opens his menu, he wonders if she wants to talk or not; however, she's silent as she looks over all of the entrees, furrows her brow from the lighting.

"Have you been here before?" he asks and feels somehow that he's interrupting, that he's talking out-of-term despite the quietness between them.

She shakes her head, tendrils of red falling loose from her pinned-back bun.

"I've wanted to go here for a while but never had a reason to," Scully explains while he eyes one dish, something about sausage marubini; he doesn't want to admit that the definition of that word, _marubini_ , escapes him.

Silently, he wonders why she called, why she so suddenly wanted to meet up. After all, she only called on Friday; by her definition, a dinner arranged during a single phone call less than a week in advance was a last-minute plan, something she rarely indulged. Though she at first called him once a week to check in, she hadn't phoned in a long time, so the surprise of the call plus the simple but meaningful ask left him unsure. She would only do this if something had happened, and though he wants to ask what happened, he doesn't know how to do so without forcing her out of this restaurant and back to the comfort of her too-big new car, their dinner abandoned, their many words left unsaid.

When their server asks if they want anything to drink, she sticks to water while he asks for a Coke, a power play of his own variety; Scully never approved of ordering soda, especially not after dark.

As he puts down his menu, he says, "You look nice."

She looks up sharply, the compliment unexpected, but then lowers her gaze.

"Thank you," she says, a politely genuine thanks but also an ultimately indifferent statement.

"How's work been?"

If he can't ask the big questions, then he'll fish for the smaller ones. She's always at her most truthful when she's being coaxed.

"Good," she says. "How's the house?"

"Good."

 _Empty,_  he thinks. _Too big. Too old. Drafty. Filled with your books. Filled with pieces of you that you forgot to take. I don't know if I should leave those where they are or if I should dump them out onto the lawn instead. One of your suits will still be in the closet on the day I die._

"How have the neighbors been?" she asks, closing her menu. As a game, he predicts her order: either the frutti di mare or the lobster ravioli.

"Good," he says. "They brought by some homemade yogurt yesterday. With a little bit of that honey from the spring, it's fantastic."

She nods softly. Whenever their dairy-farming and far-away neighbors gave the two of them fresh food in the past, she was the one who ate all of the yogurt, who piled it high with granola and berries, who brought it with her to work as a light lunch. Though he partly feels triumphant in winning the neighbors in the separation, he's also solemn with how her absence has affected them. Little Sarah, the neighbors' six-year-old, had taken to Scully as though she were a cool and compassionate long-lost aunt, fawning over her at annual Christmas parties and seeing her as a special friend. Whenever Sarah asks where Scully is now, Mulder can only give half-hearted and dry responses - working, traveling, sleeping in - because he doesn't have the heart to tell her the truth, that adults fuck up and ruin things for children all the time. Selfishly, he doesn't want them to be the ones to teach her that lesson, lets his detachment from the family encourage his cowardice. When he thinks of the little holiday card Sarah gave him last month, thinks of her soft and impish _please, please give this to Day-nah and tell her to come see me_ , he feels his heart pound.

"You should've saved some for me," she quips, but he knows that it's a loaded statement, that there are underlying emotions she doesn't want to expose.

"Sorry," he says for lack of something better to say.

At that, she looks at him with eyes deer-in-headlights blank, so he cringes, stares down at his menu. Rigatoni, he knows what that is. Manchego? He thinks that's a cheese. Tentatively, he looks back up at her, but she's doing the same thing, her brow furrowed in mild offense as she reads over the entrees. He knows that they won't order appetizers; he wonders how quickly she'll ask for the check - though she never mentioned it, he knows that she's paying, and from how he knows she'll insist on it, he wonders whether or not he should even offer to cover - once half of her dinner - she never finishes restaurant plates - is gone.

"I'm sorry," he manages; she shuts her eyes tightly, so he knows he's said the wrong thing yet again. "I just don't know how to do this."

"No, it's my fault," she says, her eyes downcast. "It's my fault for thinking this would be easy."

Though there are cutting things he could say, he holds back, keeps those thoughts to himself like he did all too often during their fights. Of course this is going to get ugly. Had he been the more mature of the two of them, he would've refused her, would've insisted they talk over the phone or in front of a licensed professional - he knows many - instead, but he's dependent, just as she said he was time after time, and if she wanted him, of course he would oblige. He was spineless, so reliant on her that a simple dinner could go awry with unspoken words. Now, he doesn't even want dinner, just wants to call a car and go back to his - _his_  - home way out in the country so that he can feel like this in peace. Though he knows these thoughts are unproductive and false, she brings them to the front of his mind with ease, and he only recently received those self-compassion worksheets, the ones specifically intended for times like this, from his therapist. Maybe, if he ducks into the bathroom, he can Google coping mechanisms on his phone, but then again, his cell's been wonky all week from when he left it in a snowbank - _accidentally_  - for two hours. His heart in his throat, he takes a deep breath, tries to calm down. _It's just dinner,_  he reminds himself, but when it comes to her, it's never _just_  anything.

She orders the frutti di mare; he decides that trying for control tonight would be fruitless and settles on that marubini dish. Without menus in front of them, they can't hide, can't deflect. He rests his elbows on the table, and though she catches herself, she nearly scolds him, her mouth forming an _o_  as she almost insists _Mulder, that's impolite._

"What else is new?" he asks.

"Bill was in town last week," she says with a soft nod. "Just him, though. No kids."

"What did you guys do together?"

A half-smile coming to her lips, she says, "He wanted to go to the Air and Space _so_  badly. Wouldn't explain why, just insisted that we go there. It was nice to see him all giddy."

Though countless questions run through his mind, Mulder nods silently instead of asking if she used their membership there to get reduced-price tickets, if they still have a membership at all. Did they stop paying for a membership at some point? At first, she dealt with all of the bills because it would've been highly illegal for him to do so, but then, they dealt in their own specialties or with what they most commonly used or understood, so he payed for the utilities while she worked on the insurance, but now, the non-necessities are gone. The last time he tried Netflix, it asked him for a password, and when he typed _trustno1_  - her idea, not his - it wouldn't let him in, and if paying ten bucks a month weren't so symbolic, he would've started his own subscription by now.

"What have you been up to?" she asks.

From the basket on their table, she takes a warm piece of bread, unfurls her knife from its wrapped napkin so that she can spread whipped butter on top. The Coke next to him, his elbows on the table, the thick layer of spread that she digs her teeth into, it's all wrong; this is not how they have dinner, for he usually listens to her when she says that cola breaks down your bones, and she usually minds her high-since-college cholesterol, and they used to have so many things to talk about, such as their days or stories one of them would repeat to the other while the other looked on in quiet contentment, but now, they only have silence.

He can imagine how this dinner would have been a few years ago, how she would've worn the same dress though he would've known its material by memory before they even entered the restaurant. As they sat down, he would've pulled her chair out for her, would've rested his hand gingerly on her shoulder before taking his own seat; they would've ordered bruschetta and antipasto salad to share, and with the silent understanding that he would drive home, she would've asked for one, two glasses of Bordeaux. While they waited for their entrees, she would've shifted in her seat, adjusted the wrap of her dress, let her cross glimmer in the candlelight as she trailed her high-heeled toes up his leg, and they would've ended up in the fancy-soaped bathroom together, her back pressed against the Italian-inscribed wall while he knelt beneath her skirt, while she wavered in her heels, while her breath came in warm, staccato bursts. When their dinner came out, he would've still been able to taste her on his lips.

However, they have silence instead, nothing but tension and stillness and woe. If she ducks away to the bathroom, she won't want him to follow her, and he doubts she'll end up coming back. Their feet are far apart underneath the table, and though she rarely does so, she's wearing flat shoes tonight. For the rest of the evening, he doubts he'll touch her or even brush against her unexpectedly. He certainly can't drive her home.

And how does she expect him to explain what's been going on in his life? His hobbies, the ones from before the depression, weren't winter-minded; he loved baking and gardening, would spend whole days in the kitchen, liked the feeling of a summer breeze through the windows of that drafty house, relished in the way it felt to hear her come home at night. He liked reading anything and everything, went to the library with her as often as he could, and he liked getting coffee with her, or watching a movie with her, or even doing laundry with her during times when she worked such long hours that he felt the need to embrace their little moments together. In therapy, he learned quickly that attaching a specific person to one's hobbies isn't the best of ideas, that high reliance can become lenience that degrades a relationship, but in theory, he would still enjoy those things without her; it's the connotation they hold now, the way things will be different when he tries them alone, that unsettles him. On the fateful day when he returns to the library, he fears how the librarians will react; at least his book-filled Amazon cart doesn't ask _hey, where's Dana?_  while he decides between the new Harlan Coben or an old Dick Francis. If he makes a big meal, he'll be the only one eating it, so why bother? He's trying to recover from his depression, not make his life more depressing by cooking for one. As for gardening, he researched indoor hydroponics last week but came to the conclusion that it was too expensive and requires more space than he had, so he can't do that in the winter, and plus, he's managed to neglect all the house-plants she left behind, so he doubts any gardening would be fruitful right now.

"Not much," he answers indifferently.

"Oh."

Momentarily, he shuts down his psychology degrees and lets that statement be what it is, the confirmation that she expected him to be bored with life and that he's made little progress since she left. Objectively, he knows that he's getting better, that he's taking the right steps in the right direction while taking the right medication and finding the right answers to his questions, but he's only just begun this process, and he knows that she was along the lines of valedictorian, salutatorian, president of her senior class, an elite; she doesn't measure progress in baby-steps and never will.

She should've found and loved a lawyer, he thinks, or an academic, or a surgeon, someone who could occasionally make her feel inferior so that she could prove her dominance once more. With him, she was always on top, no question about it, so he never forced her to grow; as a result, she could move on to bigger and better things while leaving him behind. She needs someone who will show her that the sun doesn't shine out of her ass, he figures, but then again, he needs someone to show him that the sun doesn't shine out of her ass as well.

Their food is set in front of them - _that was quick_ , he thinks - but just as their waiter is giving a smiley comment about enjoying their meals, Mulder takes a deep breath, and as he exhales, says, "Actually, would you mind wrapping mine to go?"

"What?" Scully asks, and for the first time all evening, her words hold the spice of emotion, genuine shock and discomfort in her voice.

"Yeah," he says, half to her and half to the waiter. "I'm sorry. This was a bad idea."

Though the waiter leaves without a second thought, Scully seems struck, her shoulders hunched over, her mouth open as though she wants to speak. From the staticky way she breathes, he can tell that she's hurt, but if he stays here, if his thoughts continue in this deprecating way, then he'll end up in a cold sweat while calling his therapist at two in the morning and explaining _I saw her, I didn't realize it was a bad idea until afterward, did I just undo everything? What have I done? What if she hates me now? She should hate me. I hope she hates me. I want to hate her because hating her would make this so much easier, but hating her would be like hating the breaths I take, and thinking of her in that way is so fucked, it's so fucked, I'm so fucked._  For him, leaving is the right decision; she ought to understand that, owes it to him to understand that.

The waiter returns with two to-go boxes. Convenient, Mulder figures, for Scully would've needed one at the end of this meal anyway. He scrapes his marubini, which look a whole lot like tortellini, into the container while she sits frozen beyond him; he finishes his coke, stands up, pushes his chair in, throws his coat over his shoulders. On the table, his napkin filled with silverware sits untouched.

"I'll call you," he offers, but the phrase sounds like a final twist of the knife, like he wants it to hurt her. Because her eyes are downcast, he turns away, doesn't wait for her to speak; heading outside, he finds the cold night uninviting yet infinitely more comfortable than their table inside was.

His dinner in one hand and his broken phone in the other, he tries once, twice, three times for an Uber, but the app doesn't want to work tonight. Sighing, he tries to think of cab companies around here though he knows he doesn't have enough cash in his wallet for the fare from here to the house. Even though he cringes at the thought, he could stay in a hotel here overnight and head back in the morning, when he'll be able to ask some concierge to dial a car for him. Breathing out, he watches as his breath lightens the street, the chill thin and bone-deep. Though he rarely finds himself cold, his joints ache in this weather, his knees kindly asking him to find somewhere warmer.

The door to the restaurant opens and closes behind him, and at the sound of those somehow-clunky flat shoes, he closes his eyes with annoyance.

"Let me drive you home."

If he didn't know her as well as he does, he would think her desperate, but as he turns around to look at her, he can see in her eyes the acknowledgement that, before all of this, they were friends. With her face soft, her freckles peeking through her makeup, her breath cold and visible, she holds an honest aura; she's offering out of kindhearted convenience, out of respect. The rise and fall of her unbuttoned coat punctuates the heady silence between them; though it wouldn't be a comfortable ride home, it would be a ride home nonetheless, so he nods in acceptance to her. Then, she leads him toward where she's parked on the street, unlocks the car with that loud _beep_  that he hates. Whatever possessed her to buy the Ford, he knows not, genuinely hopes he had nothing to do with it. In his mind, she still drives a little sedan with clean leather seats and a passenger's side full of sunflower seed husks that she can never seem to rid herself of. While he climbs into the passenger's seat in this car, the lumbar hits him wrong, and the cloth seats are unmarred.

She leaves the radio on after she starts the engine, a song with that musical aesthetic of a bad vocalist who somehow manages to make acoustic guitar music sound good playing through the brand new speakers. On the dash, there's a sophisticated built-in navigation system that says _Dana's iPhone Connected via Bluetooth_ , and he can remember the cheap rental cars of their earlier days, can remember the time she crashed one into a telephone pole during a snowstorm and got a _hey, don't worry about it_  from the rental company. Things were better, he thinks, when modern technology was sparse and unnecessary.

Of course, she knows the way home without thinking about it, her boxed meal rattling around the backseat as she banks a left turn. The song changes to something folky and female-vocalized; he looks out the window while the city fades farther and farther away, so he imagines them in an _Interstellar_ -type story, venturing away from their desolate but beautiful home in search of what could save their species. He can imagine her in a space suit, knows that she would make a good astronaut because she's strong, capable, smart as hell, daring and darling and accomplished. However, he would help her believe in what they were searching for, in a place where humans could thrive beyond this one; he would remind her that this isn't all for naught, that they are making a difference, that they are helping people even if they never end up saving anyone at all.

When a Crooked Fingers song comes on, she turns off the radio, let _cold ways kill cool lovers, strange ways we used each other_  play but made sure that _why won't you fall back in love with me?_  was cut off, so the only sounds left are her straggled breaths and the hum of the car's cruise control. Shaken from his imaginings, he knows they're never going to save the world, and on a breath out, he wonders if they'll even save themselves, let alone each other.

By the time she reaches the house's gate, his seatbelt is already unbuckled, but she climbs out first anyway, pushes the gate through the hardened snow while her little shoes visibly protest. Once she gets back into the car, he can smell the snow on her feet, figures her toes must be freezing. She parks at the porch, turns off the engine, so he closes his eyes, balls his fists; for the second time, he was wrong to accept her invitation.

He walks inside without acknowledging how she follows him, without protest. While he kicks off his shoes and hangs up his coat, she does the same, and as he sets his dinner on the kitchen-table, she pulls out a chair there. Right now, the house is a mess to her but a haven for him, the afternoon's dishes in the sink and his blankets and pillow on the couch. She sits as she stares down the dead plant on the windowsill. 

At the kitchen counter, he faces away from her, feels her gaze boring into his back.

"I wanted to be alone," he says indifferently, doesn't care if that's impolite.

"Okay," she gives but doesn't budge.

"I don't want to be rude," he lies, hopes to convey his message without outright asking her to leave.

She sighs softly, and suddenly, he remembers that quotation about how the world ends, with a whimper and not with a bang, and it's clear why she wanted this, why she asked him to dinner, why she offered to bring him back here; she wants this to be over. In her purse, he figures that there are probably divorce slips or papers or whatever - he never thought he would need to understand that process first because he never expected to be married and second because he never thought their marriage would end. Though she's given him plenty of time, he hasn't made enough progress, so she's ending it here, putting a stop to the tenseness and ending things before they're drawn out too long. A last huzzah, tonight was supposed to be, so he laughs without humor at that failed attempt, at a dinner he left early, at how their last romance was over before they could eat their meal together. This is goodbye, he knows, so he takes a deep breath, lets it out long and slow.

"Look at me."

Her voice is quiet, takes him back to when they were young and impressionable, to when they found that warehouse full of files and she asked him first if he would be okay after learning who his father really was; though she's always been strong, willful, capable, her sensitivity stays hidden, comes out only in spare moments they share, and despite his want to turn around, he doesn't want to remember her like this, desperate and asking and quietly frightened.

"Look at me," she repeats as she punctuates each word, her voice edged with anger.

Silently, he knows what she wants, what she wanted, and she wanted tonight to go her way. She wanted him to smile at her and tell her that she looked nice and show her that he was fine now, that his mental health was under control, that he still thinks about her sometimes but doesn't rely on her like he used to. Afterward, she wanted to split dessert with him, to collide spoons against tartufo while they laughed about how easy this was, about how natural it felt to be together again. Then, she wanted him to take her home, to this home, so that he could paw at her dress and kiss her until she forgot her own name, until she pressed him onto the couch and topped him for hours. In the morning, she wanted him to draw them a hot bath together as a parting gift, the imagining once probable but now impossible. Instead, he stares out the window in the kitchen, counts the stars in the sky like he used to count her freckles.

" _Mulder,_ " she says, and now, the anger in her voice is clear; she pushes her chair back and stands, so he closes his eyes in annoyance, braces himself for the coming impact as she angles herself alongside him. "I'm not leaving you like this."

So he laughs, turns his chin down and crinkles his eyes while his diaphragm spasms beneath that tie he spent so long picking out. Ridiculous, she's absolutely ridiculous, and now, he wants her gone, can't cope with her tonight.

"Mulder," she insists, her hand clasping his wrist, "if there's something on your mind, you need to tell me."

"Fuck you."

There's a first time for everything, he figures, so he'll throw those words at her, knows that he means them this time; as she cowers back, looks at him incredulously, he hopes this'll steer her away, that it'll put an end to the night.

"Don't talk to me like that," she gives, her tone quiet, sad, and exhausted rather than domineering.

"I want to go to bed."

"I need you to talk to me."

"Whatever your plan was in coming out here, it's not working, okay?" he snaps. "I need you to go, Scully."

Shifting uncomfortably, she gives, "We used to never go to bed angry."

"We used to do a lot of things."

"I don't want this to go unresolved."

"Is that what you wanted? To clear everything up and hash out what's been on your mind? To purge me out of your life so that you can finally rest easy?"

" _What?_ "

"I need you to go."

She leans against the kitchen counter, and though he can feel the warmth of her body so close to him, though he can smell her perfume and even that all-natural apricot deodorant she must still wear, he won't let himself be swayed by those elements, refuses to change his judgement simply because she seems so much like herself. Her breaths hot and thick, she stares at him with tired eyes, and in the dim kitchen light, his skin looks more olivine, almost sickly. Because of how deeply rural this area is, it holds a strange kind of half-silence, no white noise of cars passing by but plenty of sounds from wildlife and rustling trees; those sounds, her breath, and the swollen beat of his heart thicken the quietness around them.

She huffs a sigh, insists, "I don't want you out of my life."

"Then what do you want?" he asks, his tone angry, his gaze finally meeting hers; her eyes are terribly blue, warm and wet and exhausted, and now, he wishes he hadn't asked.

As she swallows, he watches the bob of her throat, remembers how he used to kiss her there and leave marks. Then, she looks down, so he follows that glance, realizes for the first time all evening that she isn't wearing a brassiere beneath that dress.

"I wanted confirmation," she says with a nod.

He's dug his own grave already, so he commits, asks, "Of what?"

"I went on a date last week."

Though he feels his knees buckle, he stands tall, bears how she meets his gaze with such confidence that he feels he's garbage, that he's disposable and unnecessary and unloved because if he weren't any of those things, she wouldn't have said that, wouldn't have had reason to see someone else in the first place. No, he thinks; he's not worthless, not indispensable, and a date for her was not an act of aggression toward him, but nonetheless, his mind jumps there anyway.

"His name's Michael."

Her statement makes him cringe, her tone so casual that she might as well be talking about the weather; he closes his eyes, turns his head down, quietly asks, "Stop."

"I met him getting coffee," she continues against his request. "I was behind him in line, and he paid for my cup without asking first, and when I insisted that I pay him back, he asked me to sit down and chat instead."

 _Just coffee,_  he thinks while disgusting and selfish relief flows through his veins. _Not a real date, just coffee._

"He's a financial manager," she explains. "I told him that he dressed well, and he told me that I had eyes that made music play in his head. He was sweet."

 _He's bland,_  Mulder thinks but represses.

"Though I needed to leave for work, he insisted we couldn't just end there, so he asked if I wanted to have dinner sometime," she says. "He took me to this French place in the city, picked me up in his Mercedes and everything, and it was nice. The food was nice, and he bought me expensive wine even though I kept telling him not to, and he...it was cheesy, but he gave me this little torn-up book of poetry that was dog-eared with one page, and he told me that the first time he saw me, that specific poem came into his mind, so he knew he needed to meet me."

He wants to cover his ears, to let the ringing within them drown her out, to see this guy get into some kind of spontaneous accident that means he'll be far, far away from her, but another part of him sobers, feels relieved that she found someone better. Though he can take her to the library, Michael brings her poetry; he'll never outwit some economist, will only pale in comparison, so he's thankful that he's been replaced by someone better, thankful that she'll be happy now.

"He offered to drive me home, so I went with him, and while he walked me to his car, he asked if I'd like to see him again, so I, um...."

She tucks tendrils of hair behind her ear, her cheeks pinking with embarrassment as she says, "I was a little drunk, so I felt flirtatious and countered him with some joke, and he told me that he liked that, and I...I asked him to prove it, so he kissed me."

Mulder counts his breaths, a soft _in, out, one; in, out, two; in, out, three_  while his empty stomach turns. When they prepare for flight, astronauts use breathing techniques to lessen nausea, so he forces himself through each one he can remember, for if he doesn't, he'll end up sick in the sink in front of her, and she'll never forget that, won't look at him the same way afterward.

"It was..." she continues as he breathes in sharply. "It was nice. _He_  was nice, and he drove me home, insisted on walking me up, but I didn't invite him inside. Before he left, he kissed me again and asked if I'd like to see a movie next week - this week."

He takes a breath, steels his voice, opens his eyes as he asks, "What did you go to see?"

In front of him, she furrows her brow in confusion, shifts awkwardly; her dress dips down around her breasts, and, _shit_ , she _really_  isn't wearing a bra. Her eyes startled, she meets his gaze, says as though it were obvious, "I didn't accept the invitation."

And suddenly, the whole night makes sense, from the surprise phone call on Friday evening - probably right after she told Michael that she wasn't interested in a second date - to the dinner out to her best intentions to keep tonight friendly despite the stormy emotions between them. And he's been painting her as the bad guy, as someone who wants to see him fail, all night, but now, with her eyes so warm and her body so close to his, he knows that's not the case, that she's here not because she wants to break things off but because she wants to come back. She doesn't want to pity his attempts at recovery; she wants to see his progress, to see where they are together. In a comforting way, she misses him as much as he misses her, but he knows that it's too soon for both of them, that he needs to detach himself from her more before she can healthfully return to his life. Tonight was supposed to be a friendly where-you're-at, not a plot to cut each other off altogether, so he curses himself for twisting her unspoken words.

Though he wants to tell her that he finally understands, he can't bring himself to speak, can only look down at her with the eyes of someone who has seen each and every part of her, who memorized the folds of her skin and the freckles on her back, and she's beautiful, and she's herself, and he's recovering for a chance to feel like himself again, but, _God_ , having her back would be one hell of a perk in recovery.

And she wanted to know if he still wants her back, and she wanted to see if she was right to tell Michael that her heart was elsewhere, so he makes another mistake for the night, brings his palm to the small of her back, and as his fingers trace the rayon-cotton blend of her dress, his wrists glow with the feel of her, and though he felt alive before he touched her, having her there again warms him like a fire in winter. Because she leans in, because she doesn't stray, he tugs her closer, the hairs on his arms prickling up as her legs brush against his, and her eyes are intense and blue, complex and deep and unfathomable, and with the difference of height between them, he needs to bend his knees as he kisses her.

She feels like a meditative breath, like a full glass of water after dinner, like sprigs of mint picked from his garden, like a crackling fire and like a chocolate dessert and like a silver spoon; she loops her arms underneath his, stands on tiptoe in those terrible shoes while he steadies her hips, and as he takes a breath, he can remember so many moments with her that felt like this. A few summers ago, they went to the theatre to see some new Theresa Rebeck that Scully hated in the end, and afterward, they sat together on the floor in their bathroom at home while he patched up the blisters she'd gained from breaking in a new pair of shoes that night; after she asked him to father her child, he had this feeling, the same as the night on the bathroom floor, and he can think of countless other times when he felt this way. When he found her in that cornfield in Texas, when she told him that she had him big time in the arctic, when he held their son for the first time, when he kissed her as a jailed man, he had this feeling, one of breathless contentment and understanding, a cinematic moment in which time stopped so that he could relish in the look and feel of it and lose himself to the sensation so that he would have something wonderful to think of in his darker moments.

Thankfully, she more than embraces the kiss, strays from using tongue but nonetheless makes him wonder if she will; he thumbs her hip through the thin fabric of her dress, and as her breath hitches, he feels his meditation deepen, and yes, this is how they're supposed to be, soft and passionate toward each other. They need to relearn that softness, he knows, but the passion is still there, hidden deep-down but still there. For now, they'll need space from each other, but soon, she'll come home. _Soon, Scully,_  he wants to whisper in her ear, _soon, soon, soon. Not yet, but soon._

He lets his hands go slack around her hips, quietly lets her go while she sinks back onto her heels. When he looks down at her again, little tendrils of hair have fallen around her face, so he absentmindedly presses them behind her ears, regrets the intimacy of the gesture afterward. However, she seems not to mind, so he takes a deep breath, prepares what he could say about how far along he is in recovery, about the work they both need to do so that she can come home, but before he can speak, she reaches down to take one of his hands in both of hers, massages him there with her thumbs.

"Scully, I-"

"I know," she says, nodding while she stares down at his hand. "I'm not there yet either."

"But I'm somewhere," he says, force in his voice. "I...I haven't wasted this time."

"I know," she says, looking up at him. "I can tell. You're...I can see how hard you're working. I'm proud of you."

And just as his therapist had insisted on too many occasions, his long-winded and self-deprecating thoughts were incorrect; she could see his progress regardless of its context, and in thankfulness, he wants to kiss her again but dares not do so, not tonight.

"You've done much more than I have, by far," she admits. "I'm not there yet. I may seem to be, but I'm not."

"I know," he says, and it's more than a relief that they can talk like this again, that he once more knows how she's feeling before she can even explain it to him, that the way they were before their downfall still exists. "I understand."

Softly, she lets go of his hand, gives him a half-smile as she checks the time on her watch, and it's late, and she still has to drive home, so he walks her to the door, helps her into her coat though they both know she doesn't need any help with it. While her hand rests on the doorknob, he pulls her back so that he can kiss her once more, this one soft and short and just enough to say goodbye for the evening. As she ducks out of the house, he feels the energy of the place shift, feels the lack of her warmth, sees her absence here once more, but somehow, it's okay now; it's not lonely anymore.

He watches to make sure her car starts, but to his surprise, she pauses on the porch, stays still as she seems to decide whether or not she should go, but they both know she'll leave this house, that she'll open and close the gate, that she'll drive off to some apartment that he never wants to see. However, she stays there for a moment, her breath visible in the cold, her bare hands coming to her face while she stands with her back to him.

Maybe he'll go to the library tomorrow, and when the librarians ask why he hasn't been in for a long time, when they ask where Scully is, he'll say that they're separated and that he's taken it poorly, and that will be that. No shame, no discomfort, just honesty. In the afternoon tomorrow, he has an appointment with his therapist, and he'll go over all of this, will talk about how comforting it is to know that Scully has seen his progress and that she understands it. Afterward, he'll walk around the little town near his therapist's office, stop in at that cafe that makes the best open-faced sandwiches and have one as a late lunch like he usually does, and maybe he'll spend the evening reading from his new pile of library books and go to bed early because he loves watching the sun rise over the fallen snow while he sips a hot cup of coffee in the morning. And he'll take his pills, and maybe he'll think of her, or maybe he won't, but he'll live, and he'll do the things that he likes to do, and he'll keep going like he has since she left so that he can be happy again whether or not she's alongside him. Thankfully - and he smiles with this thought - she wants their future to be spent together, but she isn't his inspiration for recovery, not quite like the feeling of waking up and being glad to be alive is, or like the satisfaction of controlling his self-deprecation will be. She's just a woman, and he's only a man, and soon, they may be together again, but for now, he'll embrace what makes him feel like himself, so he reheats his fake-tortellini in the microwave, lights a candle on the kitchen-table just because he can, relishes in the spicy and sweet taste of his dinner. If that restaurant didn't feel so tense in his memory, he would love to return.

When he goes to put his leftovers in the fridge, he sees the note to Scully from little Sarah tacked up with an _I Love D.C._  magnet, regrets that he forgot to give it to her. As he washes up for bed, as he takes his pills and heads back to the couch, he hopes that Scully can see Sarah again whether or not he's involved or present. After all, a little girl's happiness is worth far more than the deflection of uncomfortable emotions between two adults could ever be. Plus, he hopes Scully can have some of that great homemade yogurt that the neighbors make, hopes she can keep that little taste of what they both know is her home.

As he goes to set the alarm on his miraculously now-working phone, he's surprised to see a text message from her, for she rarely texts him nowadays. Reading it over, he smiles to himself.

_Want to grab lunch sometime?_

Learning from his mistakes - or were they really mistakes in the end? - he waits a moment, then responds.

_Let me sleep on that._

He may not give her poetry books, and he may not have a Mercedes, but he knows she loves him for who he is, that she wants the best for him and that he feels the same for her, so come morning, he'll probably send her a yes, but for now, he'll let it stew, give her time in case one of them realizes that they aren't ready for a lunch together just yet. Flicking off the light, he leans down in bed, closes his eyes softly. In the morning, he'll have a quiet breakfast, go about his day, and maybe hear from her, and everything will be okay.

And she _definitely_  wasn't wearing a bra. He won't forget that anytime soon.


End file.
